the pendulum of the mind
by aroseofmanyleaves
Summary: '"Calm down William." The use of his full name, uttered so closely to his lips, did nothing but make his heart pump faster. The blade, cool as ice and burning like fire, slid slowly, so slowly it was agonizing, down Will's cheek. Hannibal stopped at his jaw, and then continued at the same pace. Each movement was terrifying,' Will receives a lesson from Hannibal Lecter.


_If the beginning seems dull, please give it a chance. I promise you it gets more interesting ;) Sorry for any typos – please message me if there are any glaring errors and I will fix them (it's half one where I live and I just finished this). Enjoy!_

Will Graham unceremoniously dropped his overstuffed rucksack onto the white viscose sheets in the guest room, missing the temporary flinch that overcame Hannibal Lecter's features. Having been stored in a house surrounded by filthy dogs, and left to essentially rot in a water-damaged attic, the bag was unpleasantly dirty, and instantly began besmirching the freshly washed and laundered bed sheets. Doctor Lecter's lips curled into a thin grimace, betraying his internal feeling of revulsion, but instantly let it slide when he saw how badly Will's hands were shaking.

It was an odd experiment to retrieve a socially anxious acquaintance and trial them in a completely different environment. Whilst Hannibal had not done the irretrievable damage to Will's house that insisted upon his temporary evacuation from the residence for an extended period of time, the good Doctor had done what he could to ensure that Will ended up on his doorstep.

He knew instantly that Will was not at ease. His eyes, fathoming as the ocean, had wandered incessantly from the moment he took a first step through the door. Hannibal could see he felt uncomfortable; Will's home was where he relaxed (or attempted to, at least), whereas Hannibal utilized his first for an office, and then for a residency. His wild brown curls and unshaven, uneven stubble did not match the finely trimmed and sharp edges reflected in Hannibal's home, and it was degrading. He did not belong.

Looking nervously at the art decor in his room, and the extravagant, yet largely subtle, four poster bed, Will struggled ripping open the zip of his bag. He called the bed over the top, because in a two room townhouse, it was extravagant to have four poster beds; Will also identified it as subtle because it was painted white, and grey, and did not loom like in the old movies where they all had large red velvet drapes and black frames.

Hannibal leant in the doorway, weight shifting onto his left foot, eyeing Will as he frantically unpacked his clothes into the chest of drawers next to the bed. Evidently unaware of his presence, Hannibal noticed how Will's pupils dilated massively when he turned around and saw the Danish psychologist standing calmly, watching his every move.

Brushing back a frigid curl, Will said, "Thank you, Doctor Lecter, for giving me a place to stay. The repair man said it should only take a couple of days, so I'll be out of your hair soon enough." He gave a typical Will smile: small, flickering and only reaching the muscles in his lower cheeks.

Hannibal straightened up, brushing invisible dust from the edge of his jacket, and gave a slight smile back. "There is no problem at all Will. It is unfortunate that Doctor Bloom's holiday coincided with this event, but I see no reason why we should inconvenience one another." Will instantly nodded, not wanting to seem a burden. From his words, Hannibal instantly saw that Will was worrying about accidentally inconveniencing the Doctor. To put it right, he followed with, "Plus, I enjoy the company."

It wasn't a lie. Whilst Hannibal had difficult relationships with most people, he found it very easy to converse with Will, and even felt a certain kind of freedom in his presence. With Will Graham, Hannibal was free to exhale his madness, and to show a glimmer of the psychopath inside. After all, Will was exactly the same, just catching up.

A trace of a smile was left on Will's lips, so imperceptible that anyone else might have missed it. A week with Hannibal Lecter; it could be very worse.

He could be spending a week with Jack Crawford.

_**Hannibal**_

Will Graham woke up rasping for air, throwing his body up from the pool of sweat that had accumulated around him. He choked momentarily, coughing chaotically, and then taking deep, steady breaths to reclaim the air he had lost during his tortured sleep. He brought his hands up to his face and clamped them around his eyes and cheekbones, trying to block out the nightmares in this world. He clutched inanely at his hair, ripping strands from his skull, to no real avail, other than relieving the frustration he felt.

He could taste the sweat on his skin; salty and sickly, and frightful. He could feel it still, rolling slowly down the sides of his face, painted across his neck and collar bones, forcing its way through his flimsy pyjama top.

Looking at the alarm clock he had felt void without two nights ago and drove to his house at 4am specifically to retrieve, Will saw the time as quarter to six. He had to be up in an hour or so anyway, and sleep was destitute, so he swung his legs slowly around to the side of the bed. He breathed deeply through his nose, consciously recreating and feeling the movement of his lungs and diaphragm as he did so. He could hear his heartbeat. He counted. It sounded normal.

Taking an unsteady first step, Will headed to the bathroom with the intention of cleansing his face of the remnants of horrific dreams. The corridors in this house were lavish and plastered in a Parisian manner. It did not feel like a home - it often felt sterile, like a hotel, and was more identifiable as a showroom. Will always smiled when he recognized this - it truly did display Hannibal's flamboyant mysteriousness. He was such an enigma that he was obvious.

Hannibal Lecter like fine wines, fine foods, and fine entertainment. He liked fine clothing, fine products and fine decorations. However, there were glimpses of passion in every item that had found its way into his possession.

Reaching the bathroom nine steps down the hallway, Will was about to enter haphazardly when he heard the tiny hush of a razor blade. The door was not closed, but the gap between it and the doorframe was substantially larger than the gap between it being fully open. Repositioning himself to quickly glimpse into the room (in case he was simply hearing things, for which he could not be classified as guilty), Will looked directly through the gap and was entranced by what he could see.

Hannibal Lecter, as aforementioned, liked fine clothing. His shirts were Italian and tailored. His ties were silk and antique. His waistcoats were imported from Milan, as were his blazers, and his cufflinks came from a jewellers in Denmark that Will Graham was nearly 100% sure was only still open due to Hannibal's trade with them.

Standing in front of a beautiful crystal mirror, was an equally beautiful man. Doctor Lecter, with his Italian shirt, the first two buttons undone, not yet burdened with the weight of a tie, tucked into black tailored trousers, with a cut-throat blade in his right hand.

He was not wearing socks.

Or shoes.

His almost greying hair was not yet in its perfect place; similarly to its state after his deadly fight with Tobias, a short fringe was hanging messily in his eyes, the rest parted but still going out in different directions. It was the first time Will had seen the man like this - the man behind the mask.

Will watched in fascination as Hannibal raised the blade to his cheek, slavered evenly in what was sure to be expensive Danish foam, and slowly dragged it down his skin. Will watched in wonder at the steadiness of his hand, the precision with which he dragged the blade across his sharp jawline. Will watched in anxiety as Hannibal quickened the pace, consistently removing any small trace of stubble within seconds, slicing and dicing more rapidly than Will had seen him do in the kitchen. His mouth hung open in awe, and his fists clenched in horror.

"You can unclench your fists Will; I used to be a surgeon, I am in my own perfectly capable hands," Hannibal called out suddenly, placing the blade gently down next to the sink, and dipping his head down into the sink, washing away any traces of foam. He pulled a cotton towel from the rack on the other side of the room, and beckoned for Will to come in.

Awkwardly slipping through the small gap in the door, Will walked across the tiled floor and joined Hannibal by the sink. Why he had come when called, like he had trained his dogs to do, puzzled Will.

He felt very scruffy in comparison to Hannibal. Will stole a glance in the mirror, and was unsurprised with the result. He very often woke up, with hair and face glistening in sweat from the horrors he saw in his anguished sleep. It was not unusual, but in Hannibal's home, he felt unclean.

"I didn't, and don't doubt your ability Doctor Lecter," Will replied, enjoying the smirk that crossed the Doctor's lips. An easy thing to identify about Hannibal was that, like many professionals, he took pride in his work, and enjoyed being complimented. The smirk was a portrait of gratitude. Thank you for appreciating my work, he seemed to say.

Hannibal wiped down his face with the towel, and neatly replaced it on the hanger. He turned to Will, leaving maybe a thirty centimetre gap between them. "What nightmares did you encounter last night Will?" he asked curiously, his tone emblazoned with pity.

Will shuffled his feet. "Isn't it a little early to be acting as my psychiatrist Doctor Lecter?" he asked. Hannibal smiled again. "I am not trying to act as your psychiatrist, but as your friend," he replied, prompting Will to speak out.

"The usual," was the only reply he received. Will concentrated his gaze on another aspect of the room. He looked down at the straight razor blade, admiring the ivory handle, emblazoned with some sort of crest. The metal itself was gleaming - freshly sharpened.

"Is that the Danish royal emblem?" Will asked curiously, pointing with one finger to the small marking on the ivory handle.

Hannibal nodded, leaning across Will to pick up the blade in order to more thoroughly explain. As he leant, Hannibal noticeable breathed in, and Will felt embarrassed for being stood in his bathroom in a sweat-soaked top and cotton bottoms.

Hannibal pointed at the marking, and a small grin overpowered his mouth. "I made this myself, many years ago. When I was young, and lived with my Uncle, he taught me to use a straight razor by giving me a balloon each morning and telling me that if I could remove all the foam without popping it, I could choose what we ate for our evening meal. It took me six months. I chose a beef cordon bleu with sautéed potatoes and fried spinach."

The anecdote was both interesting and infuriating at the same time. A retelling of Hannibal's past was always something to look out for in the overly private man, but this story told Will nothing more than of Hannibal being dedicated.

He knew that already; the man wouldn't still be working with Will Graham if he wasn't.

"The 'cut-throat razor' declined in popularity, as it takes skill to use it," Hannibal continued, holding up the object for Will to see properly, displaying it from all angles. "Western civilization looks to electric shavers and safer methods, but I always believe that the traditional blade gives the best results."

Hannibal turned to Will, who had regretted not putting on his glasses before coming here in order to look at the blade more closely. The thing truly was beautiful - Hannibal was a very skilled man. The razor was a very fine thing indeed.

Hannibal turned to look at Will directly, and gripped the handle of the metal sheen very tightly. "Will, do you trust me?" he asked softly, soothingly, achingly politely, like he was telling a child a nursery rhyme.

Trust was a heavy handed word. It came attached to many other things - love, friendship, relationships, heartbreak, anxiety and betrayal. Trust was something Will Graham did not give out willingly, or to a large amount of people. He did not trust Jack Crawford. He did not trust Abigail Hobbs. He did not trust Freddie Lounds (although she had given him no reason to). He did not trust Beverly Katz or any other of the forensics team. He only half trusted Alana Bloom.

"Yes."

It was easy.

Hannibal did not respond. Instead, he picked up a rounded brush, dipped it in lightly scented shaving foam, and lightly wiped it in concentric circles across Will's cheeks. He did so with such delicacy and precision that if he had been otherwise occupied, Will might not have even noticed what the man was doing.

"Close your eyes."

Will shut them instantly. _Good dog._

He felt Hannibal's palm on his shoulder, the weight of the man bending his knees slightly in order to be at the perfect height. Hannibal took a serious step forwards, closing the distance between them to mere millimetres. Will senses went instantly into overload - he was blind, but his ears could hear Hannibal Lecter's shallow breathing, his blood pumping through his body, the sound of his heart beating.

He felt the sharp blade come into contact with his skin, and his breathing quickened.

"Calm down William." The use of his full name, uttered so closely to his lips, did nothing but make his heart pump faster.

The blade, cool as ice and burning like fire, slid slowly, so slowly it was agonizing, down Will's cheek. Hannibal stopped at his jaw, and then continued at the same pace. Each movement was terrifying, but Will kept his eyes firmly shut, chanting in his head _I trust Hannibal Lecter. I trust Hannibal Lecter. I trust Hannibal Lecter. I trust Hannibal Lecter. I trust Hannibal Lecter. _

This repetition ensured that the rest of this process - and it was madness - went by more quickly. Will was even finding it therapeutic until he found the blade at the top of his throat, and gently being pulled down past his Adam's apple, and nearly peeling through his skin.

His eyes flung open, hoping that this maybe had been a bad dream like earlier. No, he would rather be in his bed having rampant nightmares right now than be trapped like this.

"Don't talk Will," Hannibal murmured, "This part is very delicate."

_Really? Hadn't noticed._

Hannibal ignored the sarcasm directed at him by the odd placement of Will's eyebrows, and continued with the blade. Will found that he couldn't close his eyes again, his view completely ensconced by the ridiculously sharp razor at his throat. Somehow, he was also now trapped by the wall. He did not remember moving backwards in accordance with Hannibal's movements.

However, he did not feel scared. Not in the _traditional_ sense.

As the blade worked its way down Will's stubble, each glide threatening to slit his throat, Will found himself staring at the man who was carving his cheekbones, and his lips. He had always thought Doctor Lecter's lips were thin, and almost cruel, but this close, they were fuller, tinged pinker, softer. As Will breathed out, Hannibal moved in ever so slightly, hunching his shoulders to avoid a nick near Will's collarbone. When Hannibal moved his head back into position, he found his lips less than a breath's distance from Will.

He looked into Will's shadowy blue eyes, and found them peculiar. They were not typical blue, but they sang songs of melancholy and loneliness. _A window to the soul indeed._

Both men froze. The blade in Hannibal's hand remained stationary, but Hannibal himself did not attempt to back away from Will. Instead he moved his lips further forward, until they were incredibly lightly brushing against Will's.

"Nearly done," Hannibal whispered against his lips, so impossibly close to caressing Will's mouth with his own. Will gave an imperceptible nod of the head. He was too dumbfounded to do much else.

Hannibal really took his time with the last stroke. Every breath reverberated onto Will's lips, each movement moved graciously against his own, but not in osculation. When the blade was finally done with, Hannibal discarded it by the sink once more.

He brought up his right hand and laid it gingerly on Will Graham's freshly shaven cheek. "There we go," he told Will, not by speaking, but by moving the words and imprinting them on his mouth, "All done". Will closed his eyes.

Hannibal moved away, soaking a fresh cloth and then wringing it. He brought it to Will, but instead of handing it over, lined up his bare feet parallel to Will and - almost tenderly - draped it across his tingling flesh, removing hints of foam. Will opened his eyes and brought his arm up to take the cloth, but Hannibal placed an index finger to his lips, and put it by the sink, in accordance with the blade.

He did not move backwards, or alter his stance. Hannibal kept his head dipped, his fuller, pinker and softer lips in permanent contact with Will's.

Will wondered if he was doing to kiss him.

Hannibal ran a hand up Will's arm, so smoothly that it raised a thousand goose bumps all over his body. He gingerly pressed his fingertips across Will's traceable collar bone, up the soft skin of his delicate neck, and danced along his jawline, reaching back to his ears. Will breathed heavily as Hannibal coursed his hand through Will's lacklustre hair.

"Doctor Lecter," Will uttered insatiably. This was madness. _True, beautiful madness._

Will could feel the Doctor smiling against his lips. Will closed his eyes again, waiting, and then the pressure alleviated and fresh air smashed into him like a tonne of concrete bricks. When he found the energy to lift his heavy eyelids, Hannibal was halfway across the bathroom, taking product out of the cabinet.

Confused, and profoundly terrified, Will stalked conspicuously over to the door without taking a look in the mirror. He was halfway gone when he heard Doctor Lecter say one more thing.

"You suit being clean-shaven Will. I will meet you for breakfast in the kitchen in half an hour."

If this wasn't the strangest feeling in the world, Will thought as he half-jogged back to his room, skimming his fingertips along the wallpaper in the hallway as he did, he could almost quite enjoy the sensation of nearly kissing Hannibal Lecter.


End file.
